


Stray Dogs

by theCopperCow



Series: Dogs [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Exile, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theCopperCow/pseuds/theCopperCow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'He calculated, idly, how long a man of his height and weight would have to lie here in this cold before dying of exposure. Suicide by the elements, what a positively Hwellian concept.'</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  </p><p>Lord Vetinari is removed from power and sent into exile, Vimes is torn between confusion and anger, and Leonard da Quirm reveals a surprising aptitude for crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stray Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine: Discworld, all characters on it and their settings belong to Pratchett. 
> 
>   _(The Discworld year has two calendars, strictly speaking - an astrological 800-day one that follows the rotation of the Disc, and the common agricultural calendar, which has 400 days and goes: Ick (the "Dead Month"), Offle, February, March, April, May, June, Grune, August, Spune, Sektober, Ember, December.)_

_1\. Brave New World_

_\- Tuesday the 1 st of Offle, Year of the Distressed Rabbit (AM1997) -  
_

In years to come, historians would call it the Year of the Three Patricians. Of course, technically there had been four, not three, Patricians, and in the best traditions of Ankh-Morpork, people would quibble over this small detail for ages. There would be conferences, conventions, papers and schisms over the subject. ( _There was even a subsection of historians who insisted on pointing out that in a way, there had been five patricians, but they were quickly labelled ridiculously obsessive by even their peers.)_ The Patrician would not mind. Anything that kept minds as dangerous as the historians’ busy was generally considered A Good Thing.

The Editor of the Times, William de Worde, would eventually take to referring to it in his papers as the _Annus Horribilis_ , a slightly pompous term which drew sniggers from the sillier members of his staff. He let it go. People sorely needed a laugh, after...all that.

If asked for his opinion on the subject, Commander Vimes of the Watch would glare at the questioner, clamp down on a cigar, and mutter that he’d rather not think too long about those... _those_ , thank-you-very-much.

\---

However, at this particular point in time, with the ground still frozen and the calendar limping into the second month, the citizens of Ankh-Morpork had no strong opinion on the year so far, other than perhaps ‘ _Cor. Blimey. Now what?_ ’ There was a tense, determined vibe running through the crowds in the streets, as if they weren’t quite sure what was going to happen next. Just a strange, forlorn hope that if they acted exactly as they always had, continued with their daily routine, things would magically return to normal. It wasn’t so much panic as a controlled, terrified desperation.

Sam Vimes, Commander of the Watch, father, and Duke of Ankh, stood under the eaves of the entrance to the Palace, watching the throng. He felt numb. The snow had begun to pile up about his ankles, and a slow chill had begun to creep across his brain. Too many thoughts, too many questions all at once, and he still wasn’t sure what had happened, let alone what to do about it. Or what his position was under the new regime. Or if this was even legal, or _right_ , or what the strange feeling in his gut was. Bloody, bloody Vetinari and his weasel words and his bloody eyebrows. Bloody Assassins. Bloody _politics._

Vimes sighed, turned, crushed his cigar under the heel of his boot, and went to meet the -new boss. His boss. The Patrician. He wondered how on the Disc things had got to this stage.

\---

Meanwhile, a hundred miles away, on the first day of his exile, Havelock Vetinari, Master Assassin, scholar, Doctor and Lord of nowhere, was currently lying in a snowdrift, gazing up at the stars. He was distantly aware of a rhythmic hammering and mumbling behind him, but he allowed himself a moment to gather his thoughts. It was a long time since he’d had to do so. He considered his options. He came to a conclusion. He considered some more.

He calculated, idly, how long a man of his height and weight would have to lie here in the cold before dying of exposure. Suicide by the elements, what a positively Hwellian concept. In anyone else, this would have been the equivalent of heartbroken wailing and rending of clothing, but Vetinari had never been particularly expressive.

Being a practical man, he sat up presently and chided himself for his histrionics. Despair had never been in his nature, and there was no need to indulge now.

Vetinari sighed once, rose to his feet and went to investigate his companion’s antics.


End file.
